My Mental Health Is Real and In Hiding

TW: Depression, Self Worth, Anxiety, Eating to not, Childhood abuse, self harm.

I am not okay anymore and I have tried to tell myself this over and over. I have always tried to be “special” finding what made me unique from everybody else. slowly I thought I had actually did. Then hearing things that make feel ever so alone. Seeing snap stories of these adventures that make it seem like I am not worth the ten second text. How I feel out of the loop, and then I have those thoughts “maybe its because I am to loud?” “could it be I don’t fit in?” “ AM I NOT ENOUGH?” I don’t like taking group pictures because I fear that I am to ugly and imperfect to be with my perfect friends. How do you tell your friends you don’t feel like you’re not worthy of being around?

How do you fight the fact when you make plans for a dinner party you think to yourself, “No one is going to show up they have other things to do, or maybe even better things.

Offer so much assistance and feeling like you end up falling apart and no is understanding enough to help but you back together. Hiding my own mental health and thinking everyone else’s mental health is important I don’t need to sit and talk about what is wrong about myself. That if I want to talk about this that I must by their time. “I’ll get you food” “I’ll get it” The words that have been etched into my sleeve.

Mental health isn’t a competition, but then why do I feel like when I start to talk I get the response of Their Anxiety. Their Depression. One of Their Own Episodes.

Why do I feel like I am bleeding and I am crying for help and all I get is…. a butterfly band aid for the wounds of many. From birth till now. From the scars on my skin of my birth mom putting out a cigarette out till now where the scares on my arms are the battles of myself trying to figure out what is wrong with me and how to cope with being in the dark.

Crying at night. Can’t sleep to finding comfort in the moons pale face. Chasing after sun. The stars coming and going, dying and being born.

Everyone having something that makes them unique and special. Standing out when all I want is to stand in. Wanting to be apart of something to be apart of being wanted, needed, and even loved.

Feeling like my queerness of being a non-binary isn’t shown or real as me being gay, and even with that I am not gay enough, not non-binary enough because I have to many male t-shirts and pants that were bought in the men’s clothing . Feeling like my olive tone skin with farmers tan isn’t as dark as worthy as a darker Xicanx, and not knowing a language that my parents were to lazy to teach. That my fat and stretch marks are gross and not worthy of love. Finding easier to eat more of that sweet pastry because I think that is the best it will ever get. My body dealing with the waste as best it can through my pores. Then going on with eating that apple a day and snacking here and there. Trying to make through all my episodes and breathing it though hiding my mental health.

Finally, me writing this… crying in public… and getting what I need to open the closest door more just seems to me that door is locked from the outside.